


She is Young, He is Afraid

by bottleredhead



Series: We are the martyred sinners, darling. [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Enjy is an asshole but what's new, Eponine is my favourite female character, Eponine/Grantaire brotp - Freeform, Grantaire is not the father, Grantaire isn't a drunk asshole for once, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, M/M, Unplanned Pregnancy, caring!Taire is my favourite, how do you tag, over-educated revolutionaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 07:18:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottleredhead/pseuds/bottleredhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes him a moment to realise that he’s not alone and that there is, in fact, another soul seeking respite in the cramped alley. A soul that shouldn’t be there at such a time of the ink-black night. Her bare arms are stark against the darkness of the buildings on either side of them in the weak light of the moon. Her face is in shadow, obscured by the black tresses that fall in a grimy downpour from her head, but Grantaire knows the tatters of her dress and the slim figure of hers well enough to place a name to the vomiting girl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She is Young, He is Afraid

**Author's Note:**

> I have this headcanon that Eponine and Grantaire would be friends in the canon. I also have no idea where this came from but I really, really wanted caring!R, something h/c, but not R soothing Enjolras because there are already enough of those fics and I'd probably not be able to keep sick/hurt!Enjolras ic, so there you go.
> 
> Enjoy!

Grantaire’s feet clatter on the rickety, wooden stairs that lead from the Musain to the upper room that has been claimed by the Amis as the center of their revolution planning. He’s barely through the doors of the café before the cool night’s air starts to clear his head from the faint buzz of the absinthe he’s been sipping at all day.

He doesn’t, however, like the stares of the café’s patrons on him, so he turns the corner to the alley next to the establishment, where the cobblestone floors are dirty with the glittering shards of broken bottles and the retching of the wretched.

It takes him a moment to realise that he’s not alone and that there is, in fact, another soul seeking respite in the cramped alley. A soul that shouldn’t be there at such a time of the ink-black night. Her bare arms are stark against the darkness of the buildings on either side of them in the weak light of the moon. Her face is in shadow, obscured by the black tresses that fall in a grimy downpour from her head, but Grantaire knows the tatters of her dress and the slim figure of hers well enough to place a name to the vomiting girl.

“Eponine?" 

The petite girl, done throwing up, looks up at him with wide, watery eyes, her body shaking from more than the coolness of the night. Her sooty hand rises to wipe at her mouth. “ _M’sieur_ Grantaire?”

The drunkard walks towards her, arms raised in a gesture of peace as her glassy eyes narrow at him. “What ails you?” he asks, coming to a stop directly in front of her. His hand pushes the hair back from her sweaty forehead, resting on her heated skin. “ _Mon dieu_ , you are burning!” 

Eponine attempts a smile that comes across as a grimace. The expression is quickly replaced with the unnatural twisting of her features, which comes from sudden nausea, as Grantaire knows only too well. Still, he gathers her oily hair and pulls it back for her so it doesn’t become dirtier. When she’s done, her tiny body heaving with each laboring breath, he places an arm around her and helps her into a reclining position against the grimy alley wall.

“S’alright, _m’sieur_ ,” the gamin slurs, clearly feverish. Her nails, a trademark black of the unwashed, dig into her stomach through the thin material of her brown dress. The goose bumps on her arms prompt Grantaire to shrug off his own coat, arranging it around her skinny shoulders before buttoning it shut to ward off the chill.

“Stay here,” he says before realising just how absurd his words are – she clearly won’t be going anywhere in her state. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

With one last glance at the poor creature, Grantaire turns back to the café, footsteps once more causing a racket on the unstable stairs as he walks to where his friends are gathered. The sight of him, coatless and clearly troubled, draws the attention of the room.

“Oh, _wonderful_ , the winecask is back,” mutters Enjolras. Nevertheless, everyone hears him and Grantaire, for once, ignores him, choosing instead to head towards where Joly and Bossuet are playing cards with Bahorel and Feuilly.

The latter of the pairs grin at him, Bahorel calling for him to join in their game. “You shall be my lucky charm tonight, Grantaire.”

“I am afraid I do not have time for much this night, Bahorel. Joly, if you would mind stepping away from the cards for a moment, I could use your medical expertise.”

Courfeyrac, laughing loudly, jibes at Grantaire with merriment. “What is the matter, O devoted worshipper of Dionysus? Has the Green Fairy finally convinced you to indulge in her bounties with excess? Has she turned her back on you, finally?”

His words attract Enjolras’ attention, who frowns at the man in question. He does not look drunk but there is something amiss in his expression, something Enjolras cannot place a finger on. “It seems that Grantaire has fallen ill as I have predicted,” he comments dryly.

Unexpectedly, Grantaire scowls at the both of Courfeyrac and Enjolras, concern underlying the downturn of his mouth. “I am perfectly adequate to spar with any of you, save Bahorel perhaps – though that is mostly out of a sense of self-preservation. I do, however, need Joly’s help for something I do not quite understand myself, yet.”

The medicine student stands, abandoning his game of cards at the urgency lacing Grantaire’s voice. The latter’s face turns thankful as he steps back towards the stairs, a “through here” prompting Joly to follow him silently.

They make quick work of walking through the café and towards the alley, where Joly stops Grantaire with a hand on his arm. “What is this about, _mon ami_?”

The man only shakes his head, leading Joly further into the alley. To his credit, the hypochondriac merely glances at the dirt around him before his eyes fall on the figure curled on the hard brick. Immediately and as though he becomes a different person, Joly drops to his knees next to her, hands already reaching out to poke and probe her for maladies.

Grantaire, keen of the intimacy of being examined, steps backwards and turns his back to the couple. He stares at the starry skies, almost as black as his own hair, their twinkling lights reflected in his own bright blue orbs, usually dulled by the drink he favors. It’s rather odd that he’s the one attempting to take care of another human; Eponine has to have pretty bad luck to end up in is incapable hands. He’s thankful to have a friend like Joly who can actually provide her with the care she needs.

He turns back to the pair when he hears his name. “Grantaire,” calls Joly. “You need to come here, if you please.”

He does so, and the fear shining in Eponine’s eyes is enough to snap him out of his reverie. He, too, drops to his knees next to her. His hand almost instinctively finds hers, wishing to be as helpful as he could be as he waits to hear the verdict. “What is wrong with her?”

Frustrated, Joly drags a hand through his hair. “Wrong? Oh no, no, there is nothing wrong with Mademoiselle Thenardier at all. She is, however, with child. I’d say it’s been three weeks since she has conceived.”

Eponine, upon hearing Joly’s softly uttered statements, curls up on herself even more. Her hand tightens around Grantaire’s, almost cutting off his circulation with the strength of it as a sob threatens to tear itself out of her. “ _Oh mon dieu, oh mon dieu…_ ” she keens, rocking back and forth slightly.

Dread, sharp, stinging dread fills Grantaire’s chest, burning down his nose and into his stomach as if hard alcohol is being poured down his nostrils as a harsh hand grips his throat in a chokehold. What would he do with a pregnant woman? How would he care for her? Yet how could he leave her in this situation? Grantaire knows her good-for-nothing parents, criminals in their own right. They’ve never taken care of her and have turned her out the moment she was old enough to look after herself – surely they would not help her now. And from the finger-shaped bruises on her arms, Grantaire knows that whoever’s seed is quickening in her womb will not lay claim to his child. No, this girl is alone.

But not for longer, he thinks grimly.

Gently extricating his hand from the crying girl’s own, Grantaire stands up and motions for Joly to join him a little ways away from Eponine’s earshot. Once they are out of hearing range, Grantaire wrings his hands together. “What items does a pregnant woman need, Joly? How does one take care of a burgeoning babe?”

Joly’s eyebrows quirk in confusion. “Is the child yours, Grantaire?”

His question shocks Grantaire, who staggers back slightly, knuckles whitening by the force of his grip. “By the heavens! I am not. But I will take up the responsibility. I cannot in good faith leave a friend in need to scrape by and attempt to take care of herself and a babe as well! It is inhumane, and while I am far from being a good person or an idealistic revolutionary, I am human enough to pity and sympathise.”

His friend, dark-haired head bowed, places a hand on the curly-haired man’s arm. “You are a good man Grantaire, and if you have any doubts about the matter then take a moment to absorb what you are doing. I will come by your rooms tomorrow to check up on her, assuming she rooms with you from now on. If you swing by the Musain tomorrow at noon, you will find I have prepared instructions for caring for mother and child.” Joly’s hand tightens almost imperceptibly. “Are you capable of affording the necessities for sustaining two lives in addition to yours?”

Grantaire thinks of the will of his grandfather and the huge sums of money that have been left to him and his sister. The Amis do not know about his monetary status but he knows that most of them think that he is poor, if only because of his constant drunkenness and the care he does not take towards his appearance. “Do not worry, Jollly,” he jests, a weak attempt at lightening the bleakness of the moment. “I have enough to make sure all their needs will be met.”

Upon hearing that, the medicine student claps Grantaire’s shoulder before taking his leave with one last hesitant smile. He is stopped, however, as Grantaire calls after him. 

“For my sake, Joly, do not tell our friends what I needed you for. Let them think what they will but do not breathe a word about Eponine or her predicament.”

Nodding to show his acceptance of Grantaire’s terms, Joly is soon out of sight. 

Grantaire stands in the street for a moment before ducking into the alley once more. Eponine is still crying as he bends to lift her, her light body settling into his arms without much difficulty. He arranges his coat to cover her once more as her arms rise so that her hands clutch at his lapels, fingers curled around and almost crushing his cockade.

“Where are you taking me, _m’sieur_?” asks she, voice weak and devoid of the fierceness he associates with her.

Tightening his grip on her, Grantaire bites his lip. She’s such a slight thing, a girl who has been dealt her lot by a cruel life. Life, so wicked to its subjects, has been unkind to her, torturing her with uncaring parents, unrequited love, the path of a gamin, the fortune of the poor. She’s been battered and kicked and bruised by the world, and the sight of her, the feeling of her shivering in his arms makes Grantaire’s chest blaze with an anger so encompassing, he feels himself quake with the need to acquaint his fist with someone’s face repeatedly. The righteous fury takes him by surprise so much that he pauses his loping gait towards his rooms, blue eyes flashing. He almost reminds himself of Enjolras by how much he wants things to change, finally understanding how the Apollonian man would be so ready to waste his life for the betterment of his beloved Patria. 

Afraid of frightening the girl in his arms, Grantaire calms himself, willing his legs to resume their movement. It’s a cold night, and the bitter November wind bites at his cheeks as he answers her.

“Home. I am taking you home.”

* * *

When Joly returns to the upper room at Café Musain, they eyes of its patrons turn to him, questioning.

“Where is Grantaire?” asks Combeferre, not suspiciously.

“He has gone home,” says Joly, moving to retake his seat next to the perpetually unlucky Bossuet. “I shan’t expect him to return tonight, so do not waste your time.”

Courfeyrac, who is rather close to the painter, raises his eyebrow. His eyes move to Grantaire’s bottle of absinthe, almost full and mostly untouched. “He has not taken his bottle before leaving! Surely he isn’t alright to leave his muse behind?”

Joly sighs wearily. He should have known his friends would not leave the matter alone, and if he is to be respectful of Grantaire’s wishes then he should not say more. “He is… he is quite alright. Let us change the subject, I tire of this conversation.”

The gathered stop trying to discuss the matter, choosing to comment on Bahorel’s newly acquired wounds instead. They do not ask further questions, nor do they comment on Joly’s pale face or worried expression. But they wonder.

 _Oh_ , how they wonder.

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd. I read through this once but I'm supposed to be studying for the upcoming AS Levels, so I wrote this sneakily.
> 
> Comments, kudos and bookmarks appreciated!
> 
> Also, any of you sitting for the AS Level examinations this May? Because I totally sympathise. Exams are a bitch.
> 
> I'm always procrastinating and can be found at enjolraspermitsit.tumblr.com, if you care to talk shop.


End file.
